I notice the dust first, always. It settles in a fine layer across the seat cushion of this chair, undisturbed by anything that should have moved it today. The air smells like stale disinfectant mixed with something metallic and faintly sweet—the scent of deep cleaning that hasn't quite managed to mask its own presence. We reset everything every morning for an expected arrival, yet nothing truly resets. The clock on the wall insists it is ten minutes past three o’clock in the afternoon, but the blinds are angled sharply enough to let through a wash of light meant for noon. It is always wrong. The coat draped over the back of the chair seems heavy today, settled into the fabric like an old skin. Near the floor, where the corner meets the wall, there sits a single glove—a beige knit thing that does not match anything else here. When I look at it, I realize its placement is impossible; it rests just outside the natural curve of the chair leg, as if dropped by someone who was moving quickly and then simply stopped. The room seems to resent this small piece of misplaced order. I watched it happen again. A slight shift in the air pressure near the sink caused a ripple that seemed to reorganize the stack of yellowed intake forms on the nearby counter. They slid back into perfect alignment, only for one corner card—the one marked with faded blue ink—to pop out and settle facing up. The room corrects itself constantly; it tries to achieve an arrangement of quiet utility, but always fails at that single point of friction. From the faucet, a faint, rhythmic drip punctuates the silence. It is not constant, just enough to mark time without announcing it. I keep my attention on the slow rhythm and the way the light catches the dust motes suspended near the glove. We are waiting for someone who never arrives, leaving only these minor, persistent errors of placement behind.
drip · uneasy